I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

How grudging memory is, and how bitterly she clutches the raw material of her daily work.

People only see in us the contemptible skirt-fever which rules our actions but completely miss the beauty-hunger underlying it.

The artist's work constitutes the only satisfactory relationship he can have with his fellow men since he seeks his real friends among the dead and the unborn.

Gamblers and lovers really play to lose.

Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.